The Parting of Pierre

by Annette Moncheri

  He turned an accusatory glare on Mireille, and I did as well.

  “You can’t tell me now that you’re betting only coins here,” I said. “Men don’t shoot each other over coins.”

  She shook her head. She seemed almost as shaken as when she’d found Pierre Fabron’s body in the bath.

  “Gentlemen, all bets are off,” I announced. “Leave your money on the table and walk away.”

  “No!” protested the man who’d held the gun. “You can’t do that!”

  “Obviously, you were losing anyway,” I said tartly. “Although I know the loss of”—I peered at the short stack of coins in front of his chair—“four francs will be such a blow. Walk away.”

  He glanced at the gun I held at my side, and I could see that he wanted to demand that back too, but he thought better of it and stalked out. The rest of the men followed, throwing their cards on the table in frustration or resignation.

  Mireille sank into her chair and put trembling hands over her thin face. She burst into tears.

  I sat next to her and stroked her hair. “Dear Mireille,” I said gently, “have we learned our lesson?”

  “Yes, Madame,” she wept. “I’m so sorry. I just couldn’t resist. I thought it would be so much fun to play for money. And then the men asked if we couldn’t raise the stakes.”

  “The coins were placeholders, like chips?” I asked.

  “Yes, a one-franc coin was a hundred francs, and so on. They really wanted to do it, and I didn’t see the harm.”

  I continued to stroke her hair. I said nothing more, however, as I’m convinced that one of the best ways to ruin a relationship is to rub someone’s nose in their mistakes.

  “I suppose gambling is at an end at Le Chat Rose?” she asked tearfully.

  “I think that would be best, my dear,” I said.

  I took a handkerchief from the pocket of my dress and gave it to her.

  “I might as well tell you everything now,” she said brokenly.

  Everything? I was curious now, but I said nothing, giving her time to speak.

  “Pierre Fabron played cards for money, too, and he had rotten luck.” She sniffled. “And he’d lost a lot of money here over the past few weeks. Then he’d borrowed. And couldn’t pay the money back. Oh, he was in deep. I told him over and over to put a stop to it, but he said he just needed one good win to be back in the black.”

  “And you think this could be part of why…”

  “Why he was killed, yes. Those moneylenders are awful.”

  I leaned back and gave it a moment’s thought. “But moneylenders don’t kill their customers. Because a dead man never pays. They’ll threaten, and they’ll cause harm, but they don’t kill.”

  “Maybe they only wanted to scare him, and they… held him under for too long by mistake.” Her chin trembled. “Well, that’s an awful thought. I won’t be sleeping tonight.”

  “No matter how it happened, it’s tragic,” I said. “Better not to think on it too long.” I patted her hand. “I do have one last question for you. How did you know the colleague of Pierre’s, who came from the Banque de France yesterday? I saw that you recognized each other.”

  “Oh… Elliot. Yes. We’d all gambled together at other establishments, you see. And it all got very confusing—I didn’t want you to know that Pierre had lost so much money here, because we weren’t supposed to be betting so much money, and so I didn’t want to be connected to Elliot.” She sniffled. “I’m so sorry I lied to you.”

  I squeezed her hand. “A lesson learned is a lesson ended. Go upstairs and wash your face, my dear.”

  12

  I went out and called Mademoiselle Marchand, the night maid, to come tidy up the gambling room and remove all traces of its short-lived purpose. I would be glad to put it behind me.

  Now, where was I before all the excitement? Ah, yes… I was about to put an end to the plot of the Moral Society.

  I called the operator and determined, to my great pleasure, that Madame Alodie Sirois, the founder and leader of the Moral Society, resided here on the Île. I suppose that is one advantage to being here, if one’s enemies are high and mighty—only the highest-class Parisians live here.

  Her studio was on the north side of the Île, directly on the quay.

  It was now early in the morning, when decent folk were asleep. Auntie Ignace was surely asleep, with Caramel the doggie licking her toes—a thought that made me shudder. My drawing room, on the other hand, was at its maximum capacity and every girl had gentlemen waiting. Not the best time for me to disappear, but I would be quick.

  I went out into the night in my bat form and flitted down the quays, high above the automobiles and street lights, above the heads of the people who were on their way to theatres and bars and parties, their voices raised in the pure joy of being human and alive in the City of Lights. I moved so quickly they seemed to be in a movie with the reel running too slow, barely one step made before I was far beyond them.

  I found my way to Sirois’s front door and perched on a street light, where I emitted a series of peeps and listened to the echoes. A window was open. It was dark within, and the angle was poor for me to know what was inside—but with luck, it was a sleeping Alodie Sirois.

  I flitted inside and into a corner of the ceiling, but the room’s furniture was strange – rows of benches? A table against the wall at the front? Before I could take it in, I felt as if a heavy weight crushed my chest, and panic thrilled through me, taking my breath and forcing me into flight.

  I flitted as quickly as my wings would take me out of the open door and into the hallway, which was lit on each end with lamps but empty of people. Instantly, I felt at ease, and I dropped to the carpeted floor as my human self. It was that room that terrified me. From the hallway, I looked back to see that I had inadvertently selected the private chapel as my entry place. I heaved a shuddering sigh.

  I extended my superhuman senses and determined that all in the house were sleeping, so I had the luxury of calming myself down. I dropped back against the hallway wall and took a few deep breaths.

  Foolish woman, I scolded myself. Next time perch at the sill and look around! Then again, if I had seen the room in advance, would I have had the courage to force my way through it and into this hallway?

  Never mind. I had a task to accomplish.

  I walked down the hallway quietly while listening at each threshold. On the other side of the third door, I heard the heavy breathing of a deeply sleeping person.

  I went in quietly—as quietly as only someone with supernatural powers can do—and looked over the sleeping woman. I knew it was her by the mustache—not as full as Hélène’s description had led me to think, but unmistakable.

  I withdrew and hid myself in the darkest shadows. Then I spoke with my full pouvoir. I was not aiming now to charm or enchant. No, that would not do, nor would it work well on a woman who had no desires for the fairer sex. I used all my power to intimidate and terrify, and I used it to distort my voice so that it could have been that of a demon.

  “Madame Alodie Sirois, awake!”

  She jolted in her bed and sat upright, gasping. She said nothing as she looked around, surely hoping perhaps it was a dream that awakened her.

  “I am no dream, Madame Sirois. I am your worst nightmare. You will listen to me and obey me or a terrible fate will befall you.”

  She quivered and the bed shook. “Mon Dieu!”

  “Your god is not here, but I am. And you will do as I say. You will halt your vendetta against the maisons tolerées of Paris. You will not release the names of the brothels’ customers. You will put an end to your meddling! Do you understand me?”

  “Mon Dieu! Don’t hurt me, please!”

  “Will you do as I say?”

  “Yes, I’ll do it. I won’t release the names. I’ll stop the investigators. I’m sorry!”

  “I will be watching you at every moment, Madame. Do not imagine you can betray me unpunished!”


  And with that, I shifted into a bat again and flitted out through her window.

  I had to admit—I enjoyed that.

  13

  Back in the drawing room a short time later, I found that the photographer from Le Guide Rose, Oates Pichette, awaited my return with a folder full of prints under his arm. He greeted me with an enthusiastic handshake and shoved his dark locks out of his face.

  “Bonsoir, Madame,” he said, beaming. “I do apologize, I know you told me to select the best photo of each, but they all came out so well, I just had to let you see them.”

  His bon vivant attitude was contagious, and I found myself matching his smile. “Ah, Monsieur, you’re hoping I’ll purchase more than one for each lady, aren’t you? I know your tricks.” I gave him a wink to show I wasn’t offended.

  “You can’t blame me for trying, can you?” he replied with a winning smile.

  Just then, Monsieur Guillot interrupted our conversation, coming from the direction of the back hallway. His thin lips pressed together and a muscle on the side of his face twitched with what I guessed was barely suppressed fury. With no civility at all, he asked, “What the devil has become of the bouillotte table?”

  I appealed with my eyes to Oates Pichette, who gallantly bowed and stepped a few paces away, and I turned to Guillot. “It is all fin,” I said, making an emphatic gesture. “Mireille confessed everything to me, and there will be no more gambling at Le Chat Rose. You have only yourselves to blame.”

  He reddened and his shoulders tensed in a way that made he think he fought an urge to strike me. “I suppose you think you can do whatever you wish with your maison.”

  My eyebrow lifted. “I do. Because I can.” I met his gaze frankly, with open dislike. I had had quite enough of Monsieur Guillot.

  He met my gaze with a similar look. It put me in mind of a snake before he strikes. Then he closed his eyes briefly and took a long, deep breath, which I took as an indication that he was mastering himself. “Then I suppose I might as well amuse myself in other ways while I’m here. I will find one of your girls.”

  I gestured around the drawing room in invitation. “Feel free, Monsieur.”

  He went toward the bar, where Anaelle, Mireille, and Inés were all relaxing on barstools and drinking champagne and smoking, and I returned to Oates.

  A few moments later, he and I had spread out the photos across the top of the grand piano, and I murmured words of admiration and praise. The pictures were beautiful.

  I saw out of the corner of my eye that Monsieur Guillot was leading Mireille upstairs—a surprise indeed after all that had happened between them.

  I picked up a shot of Anaelle de Gall, who was so often sour and cross, and marveled at her bright cheeks and the smile so broad it crinkled the corners of her eyes. “How ever did you get her like this?” I exclaimed. “You are truly talented, my friend.”

  “Oh, well,” he said with a poor excuse for modesty, “this is my calling, I feel. Photography is everything to me—especially when it is of beautiful women.”

  I gasped as I lifted a particular photo of Safia. She was radiant, with the glow of the gas lamps lighting her so softly that she looked like an angel. I shook my head in wonder. “Fantastique.” Pichette beamed happily.

  In the next few photos, Pichette had moved around the piano to capture different angles. As I flipped through a second time, looking more closely at the details, a figure in the background of one of the shots caught my gaze.

  It was Monsieur Guillot, coming out from the downstairs hallway. His lips were pressed thin, his angular eyebrows gathered, and his face mottled. His expression suggested anger or consternation, and he glared directly at the camera.

  But what captured my attention was the awkward way he clutched his jacket in front of him… as if attempting—but failing—to hide the water splashed on his clothing.

  I felt electrified. I remember how little Caramel had attacked Guillot. The dog had sniffed around the scene of the murder, at the bathtub—he’d recognized Guillot’s scent!

  And Guillot was inside my maison at this moment…

  And he had just gone to Mireille’s bedroom…!

  I turned to Pichette, who looked at me in confusion, seeing only that my mood had shifted. “I’m sorry,” I said as I clutched his arm. “I’ve just realized I’ve got something very important to see to.”

  As I made for the stairs, he called after me, “What about the prints?”

  “I’ll take them all,” I called back. “Frame the best one for each lady!”

  I saw Monsieur Georges near the telephone, and I hurried to him to quietly say, “Phone the inspector and ask him to come immediately.”

  He nodded obediently and I rushed back to the stairs.

  The hallway upstairs was empty, and I took full advantage of it and used my preternatural speed. I fairly flew to Mireille’s door. I tested the knob and found it locked, and I pulled out my master key, opened it, and flung it open.

  Guillot was just pulling himself off the bed where Mireille lay fully clothed and gasping, with her hands to her throat, where red marks told me everything I needed to know.

  Without a word, I closed and locked the door behind me and toggled off the lights.

  I stalked Guillot silently, navigating by the harshness of his breath and the soft sounds of his shoes on the carpet. I ignored the startled whimpering of Mireille—I would comfort her in a moment.

  Guillot pressed himself against the wall to orient himself and tried to feel his way toward the front of the room. I approached slowly to within inches of him, until he could sense my closeness and feel my body heat, and he froze like a rabbit when the wolf has closed in. I relished the anticipation for a glorious moment, and then caught him in my embrace and drank deeply, gulping sweet and delicious nectar until he fainted. Then I licked the bite marks to seal them and wiped my mouth as I let him sink to the floor.

  I would do far worse to him later. But for now, I needed a murderer who could still confess.

  I toggled the lights back on and hurried to sit with Mireille, who stared about in breathless horror and confusion. “Darling, all will be well,” I said gently. “He will do you no further harm.”

  I used my charme to calm and reassure her until I heard the urgent footsteps of Inspector Baudet in the hallway, and then I opened the door for the police.

  Soon enough, our killer sat, pale and trembling, in my office, his wrists in handcuffs, while I showed him—and the police—the damning photograph.

  “Good work, Madame,” Inspector Baudet said, shaking his head in wonder. “Our only lead was that we’d run down Monsieur Apostol Abelin—the hired gun you supplied the drawing of. But he refused to talk to us. I—"

  “Oh, he was hired by Ignace Queneau, Pansy Fabron’s aunt,” I supplied helpfully. “But only to watch people, not to kill anyone.”

  The inspector closed his mouth for a moment. “I don’t suppose you were going to let me in on that fact anytime soon?” he inquired.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector.” I permitted a smile to cross my face. “I’m afraid I can’t be trusted a bit.”

  “Is there anything else you have to tell me?” he asked.

  “Only that a little dog was part of the team this time,” I said, and I related to him the story about Caramel.

  Guillot shifted restlessly in his chair, turning red-faced. “Damned little beast. I should’ve drowned it too.”

  At that, Monsieur Carré made an involuntary sound of distress. His face turned pale.

  “Anything wrong?” I asked him.

  “Let’s not talk about d— death by water,” the fellow said. “There’s just no call for it.”

  “Other than it’s a drowning case?” I asked. I couldn’t help but tease him a little.

  The inspector interrupted, a slight smile hovering about his lips. “I’m afraid it turns out Monsieur Carré has a bit of a phobia about that.”

  “Ahhh,” I said. I resisted the urge to tease
him any further. After all, I presumably had a handful of phobias myself—churches, crucifixes, mirrors, running water… it was good for me that no one had yet assembled this list and given it any serious thought. “I’m sorry. I will let it lie.”

  Carré swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Well, Monsieur Guillot?” The inspector returned his attention to our killer. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  “Only that Fabron deserved what he got,” Guillot snarled. “He owed me money! He’d gotten in too deep with moneylenders and they wouldn’t loan him any more. He owed me, and I took my payment in blood, that’s what I did. He had it coming.”

  Inspector Baudet shook his head. “That’s very helpful of you,” he said drily. “Thank you.”

  Certainly, Monsieur Guillot was the very picture of unrepentance, and I saw him escorted out of my office without a bit of regret myself. Well, except for my regret for all the harm he had caused to others.

  My thoughts caused me to heave a sigh, and Inspector Baudet turned back at the threshold, his hat in his hands.

  “Heavy thoughts, Madame?” he asked me.

  “Repentance, Inspector. He lacks it entirely.” I caught myself fantasizing about how I was going to find him and eat him up later… I was hungry now.

  “That’s typical for these sorts, I’m afraid,” he said, not unkindly. “Humanity is capable of much evil, and even then will rationalize it away. You’d be amazed at how often the other fellow deserved what he got.”

  “Perhaps that’s the moral of the story then, Inspector. When we’re certain that our behavior is justified, perhaps that’s when we need to re-examine ourselves the most.” I thought of the Parisian Moral Society then, too.

  He nodded graciously. “Wise words, Madame.” He let his gaze fall to the floor a moment as he thought, then he met my eyes with a look more mischievous than any I’d seen on him before. “Should I re-examine my conviction that I ought to invite you to dinner sometime?”